Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (17 page)

“What’s up?” she asked, with a bright smile.

“Uh, nothing, Lucy,” the clerk’s assistant, Andrea, replied. She was a chubby girl in her twenties, with thick brown hair pulled back into a frizzy ponytail.

“It’s like somebody died in here,” Lucy joked.

“No. We’re all fine,” Andrea said, handing her the meeting schedule. “Do you need anything else?”

Lucy glanced at the list, which included the usual selectmen’s and FinCom meetings, as well as the Planning Committee and Conservation Committee. “Looks like a busy week,” she said, hoping to get some sort of conversation going.

“If that’s all, I have to get back to work,” Andrea said.

“Of course,” Lucy said, admitting defeat. Her reporter’s nose told her something was definitely going on, something that nobody wanted her to find out about. There were no cheerful greetings, no hellos or good-byes as she passed the various town offices. Instead, heads were quickly turned as soon as she was spotted. She was beginning to wonder if she had the plague or something, when she bumped into Barney Culpepper at the entrance.

“Hey, Lucy!” At least he greeted her warmly.

“Hi, Barney. How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain,” he said, taking off his official blue police winter cap, with the fur-lined ear flaps.

“Do you know what’s going on?” she asked. “I got a really odd reception in there this morning.”

He pulled her aside, away from the glass doors where they were clearly on view, into a sheltered alcove where a table was loaded with free information booklets on subjects such as preventing forest fires and how to obtain fishing licenses. “Don’t say you heard it from me. . . .” he began.

“Of course not.”

“The town employees are planning to stage a demonstration at the FinCom meeting Wednesday night. They’re going to demand reinstatement of hours and benefits.”

“Great,” Lucy said. “I’m all for that. Why the attitude?”

“Because of Bill,” Barney said. “He’s on the committee. . . .”

“. . . and I’m his wife,” Lucy said, finishing the sentence.

“Yeah. I think they just feel awkward about it.”

“Well, they shouldn’t,” Lucy said. “I’m on their side.”

“But nobody knows how Bill’s gonna vote,” Barney said.

“Not even me,” Lucy admitted. “It’s going to be an interesting meeting.”

“See you there,” said Barney, with a wink.

Tuesdays were always busy at the
Pennysaver,
as they all worked to meet the noon Wednesday deadline, and for once Lucy was grateful for the constant pressure that kept her mind from obsessing about Sara. It was only when she left the office that she found herself brooding, worrying about where and with whom Sara would be spending the night.

Dinner was a quiet affair, with just the three of them gathered over tuna casserole at the kitchen table. Lucy was trying to think of a tactful way to warn Bill about the town employee’s plans to demonstrate at the FinCom meeting when Zoe broke the silence.

“This is weird,” Zoe declared. “I always wished I was an only child but now I don’t like it.”

“Why don’t you like it?” Bill asked, helping himself to salad.

“Nowhere to hide,” Zoe said, digging into the casserole. “Besides, I always come out looking pretty good in comparison to the others.”

“You’re just younger,” Lucy said. “You haven’t had a chance to get into trouble.”

“But now . . .” Zoe began.

“Yes?” Lucy and Bill chorused, swiveling their heads to stare at their daughter.

Her reaction was instantaneous. “See!” she retorted, and they all laughed.

“You can consolidate your favored child status by doing the dishes,” Lucy said. “I’ve got a rehearsal.”

“Lucky me,” Zoe moaned, but when they’d finished eating she got up and cleared the table without further protest. The leftovers had been wrapped and put away and the dishwasher was humming when Lucy left the house.

The night was cold and crisp and moonlight reflected off the snow that filled the woods and yards alongside the road. The little cluster of houses on Prudence Path were bright with Christmas lights, and the neighborhood looked like a picture on a Christmas card. Farther on, Lucy passed the turn to Shore Road and resolutely drove past, resisting the tug that drew her to Sara.

After rehearsal, Lucy stopped at the IGA to pick up a gallon of milk and some eggs for breakfast. The store was brightly lit but only a few cars were in the parking lot, including the Cunninghams aged Corolla. Lucy saw them in the cereal aisle as she hurried back to the dairy counter, which was located along the rear wall of the store, and attempted to avoid them by returning through the canned goods. She knew she was being a coward but she was tired. She’d had an emotionally exhausting day and she didn’t feel up to coping with their difficult situation.

Her strategy didn’t work, however, as she encountered Zach and Lexie at the checkout counter. Dot had added up their order and Lexie was handing over their SNAP benefit card when Lucy got in line behind them.

“Okay,” Dot said. “That brings it down to twelve forty-nine, for the pet food.”

Zach pulled out his wallet and discovered he only had nine dollars. “What have you got, Lexie?”

Lexie found she had two dollars and twenty-seven cents.

Zach sighed. “I’ll take it back and get the smaller bag,” he said, picking up the twenty-pound bag of dog chow.

“Don’t bother,” Lucy said, handing Zach a five-dollar bill. She didn’t care if he paid it back but she knew Zach was proud, so she added, “Catch me later, when you’ve got it.”

“Thanks,” Zach said, as Dot gave him the change. He turned to Lucy with a serious expression. “I will pay you back.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” a male voice advised, and Lucy turned to see Ben Scribner standing in line behind her, holding a can of store-brand coffee. “Trust me. You can’t count on folks who get government handouts and still can’t make ends meet.”

Suddenly, Lexie whirled around, her face distorted as she struggled with tears. “Who are you to criticize us?” she demanded. “You’re a greedy, horrible, nasty, selfish man! You wreck people’s lives! You should rot in hell—and I know you will!”

Embarrassed, Zach attempted to quiet his wife. “She doesn’t mean it. She’s just upset,” he said. “Our daughter’s in the hospital—she’s very sick.”

Much to Lucy’s amazement, Ben Scribner’s features seemed to soften. “Your little girl is sick? How old is she?”

“She’s seven, not that you care,” Lexie snapped. Her hair, which needed a wash, was pulled back into a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, not even lipstick on her thin, chapped lips. Her skin was pasty from being indoors too much and stretched so tight over her bones that Lucy thought it might crack.

“Her name’s Angie,” Zach said.

“And what’s the problem?” Scribner asked.

“Juvenile polycystic kidney disease.” Lexie hissed out the words.

“And can’t the doctors do anything?”

“She needs a kidney transplant, but we’re running out of time,” Zach said.

“What do you mean?” Scribner asked.

“If she doesn’t get it soon,” Lexie said in a flat tone, “she’s going to die.”

Scribner looked astonished, as if the idea that a child could die had never occurred to him.

“So you can take our house if you want. I really don’t care, because Angie won’t be there. It won’t be our home, not without Angie.” Lexie turned to Lucy. “Thanks for the loan. We’ll pay you back next week,” she said.

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Lucy said.

Lexie nodded and started to go, then suddenly whirled around and spat in Scribner’s face, before running out of the store.

Dot reached under the counter for a roll of paper towels, but Lucy thought she took an awfully long time unrolling a few sheets and handing them to Scribner, so he could wipe the saliva off his face. It was as if she wanted to give him plenty of time to realize what had happened, and to consider what Lexie thought of him.

T
he big hand on the clock in the
Pennysaver
office was jerking its way to the twelve on Wednesday morning when Lucy hit the final period and sent Ted her last story, an account of the Planning Committee meeting, when the little bell on the door jangled and Rachel walked in.

“Hi,” Lucy said, greeting her with a smile. Phyllis and Ted merely waved, being busy with last minute tasks.

“Is this a bad time?” Rachel asked. She looked frazzled, with dark circles under her eyes. Strands of long dark hair had escaped from her tortoiseshell clip and she kept tucking them behind her ears. When she unbuttoned her coat, Lucy saw she’d topped an unbecoming maroon turtleneck with a ratty old brown sweater, obviously the first things that came to hand.

“No, I’m done, unless Ted finds fault with my five inches on the Planning Committee.”

“You’re done,” Ted said. “I don’t think I’ve got room for it this week.”

“I hate it when this happens,” Lucy complained. “My precious prose, discarded on the scrap heap of journalism.” She was hoping to get a smile from Rachel, but didn’t succeed.

“I was just wondering, well, if maybe you could help me this afternoon,” Rachel said, sounding as if she didn’t really think Lucy would.

Lucy, however, wasn’t about to turn her down. She wanted to find out what was causing her friend to be so unhappy. “Absolutely,” she said. “What can I do?”

“Miss T and I are going to go over the costumes one last time and we could use another pair of hands. Are you sure you don’t mind?” Rachel asked. “I mean, with Christmas and all you must have a lot to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Lucy said, reaching for her purse.

“It seems an awful lot to ask,” Rachel continued in a doubtful tone.

Lucy zipped up her parka and put an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Look, let’s get some coffee and a bite to eat, maybe an early lunch, and we’ll take it from there.”

At Jake’s, Lucy ordered a BLT and a cola. Rachel got a bowl of chowder, which she stirred from time to time with her spoon but didn’t eat. “What’s going on?” Lucy asked, talking with her mouth full of crunchy toast.

Rachel’s expression was bleak. “I don’t know. I just can’t seem to pull myself together.”

“Maybe you’ve just taken on too much,” Lucy said.

“That’s what Bob says.”

“So things are okay with you and Bob?” Lucy asked.

Rachel suddenly looked anxious. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing,” Lucy said, quick to reassure her. “Nothing at all.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Sometimes I wish that scenery had done a little more damage to Florence.”

Lucy smiled. “Bob’s not the sort to be unfaithful.”

“Florence doesn’t seem to realize that,” Rachel said. “She keeps calling and popping up. You’ve seen how she won’t leave him alone at rehearsals.”

“I’ve also seen how Bob brushes her off.”

“She’s like dog hair. No matter how much you brush her off there’s always more.”

Lucy laughed, relieved that Rachel hadn’t entirely lost her sense of humor.

“The show’s going well,” Lucy said. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s coming together,” Rachel admitted. “I asked Bill to stop by and check the scenery.” She spooned up some chowder. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?” Lucy asked, popping the last bit of BLT in her mouth.

“Well, I don’t want you to think I’m after your husband or anything.”

Lucy coughed and sputtered, choking and reaching for her drink. “Never crossed my mind,” she finally said.

Rachel drove them both to Miss Tilley’s little Cape house, which was decorated in the spirit of the season with a swag of greens tied with a red ribbon on the front door. Inside, Miss Tilley’s small tabletop tree was decorated with antique kugels from Germany, which Lucy happened to know were worth quite a lot of money.

“Your tree is beautiful,” Lucy said, examining the handblown ornaments.

“I remember those ornaments from my childhood.” Miss Tilley was dressed as usual in a neat twin set and tweed skirt. Her white hair made a curly aureole around her pink-cheeked face. “I wasn’t allowed to touch them.”

“Is this tree fake?” Lucy asked, touching the plastic needles.

“Much safer for the ornaments,” Miss Tilley said, pleased as punch to show that she wasn’t stuck in the past. “And you can keep it up as long as you like—it doesn’t drop its needles.”

“But you don’t get the piney scent,” Lucy said, as Rachel helped the old woman into her broadcloth coat. She offered her arm to Miss Tilley when they trooped out to Rachel’s car, since the walk was a bit slippery, but Miss Tilley refused it in a show of independence. She did the same when they arrived at the church, even sliding a bit on an icy patch as if she were ice skating. Lucy and Rachel exchanged a disapproving glance, as if their aged friend was instead a stubborn toddler.

Once inside, Rachel led them to a corner in the basement hall, where the costumes were hanging on a portable rack. They were stiff and dusty, so they shook them out, and checked that the buttons and zippers were all in working order and added labels identifying each one. A couple of pairs of trousers needed their length adjusted and Lucy busied herself with needle and thread. Miss Tilley brushed the top hats worn by the male characters, and Rachel let out the bodice of Marge Culpepper’s costume, which was too tight.

“How are your children, Lucy?” Miss Tilley asked. “Is Elizabeth still working at that hotel in Florida?”

“She is, and she has to work Christmas Day but she’s coming the day after.”

“Boxing Day,” Miss Tilley said. “In Dickens’s day rich folk boxed up their old clothes and gave them to their servants on Boxing Day.”

“We could use a little more of that spirit these days,” Rachel said. “Ticket sales are behind last year’s.”

“It’s the economy,” Lucy said. “People are hurting.”

“Not everyone is hurting,” Miss Tilley sniffed.

“Now you sound like Sara,” Lucy said. “She’s joined the social action group at Winchester College.”

“Good for her,” Miss Tilley said. “I like a girl who acts on her convictions.”

“I’m not sure whether it’s convictions or simple teenage rebellion,” Lucy said. “She’s left home and is squatting in a foreclosed house on Shore Road.”

Rachel paused, seam ripper in hand, a horrified expression on her face. “I’m so sorry, Lucy. Here I was going on about my problems when you must be sick with worry.”

“To tell the truth, I’m past worry. Now I’m mostly annoyed.”

“But what if she gets arrested?” Rachel asked.

“I hope she does,” Lucy declared. “It will teach her a lesson.”

“Or confirm her in her beliefs,” Miss Tilley said, holding Scrooge’s top hat up to the light. “Such a silly fashion,” she said. “Isn’t it odd what people will wear?”

“Sure is,” Bill said. His arrival let in a gust of chilly air. “You wouldn’t catch me wearing a hat like that.”

“You’d look quite handsome,” Miss Tilley said, winking at him.

“Want to try it on?” Lucy teased.

“No way!” Bill hoisted the toolbox he was carrying. “Now what exactly do you want me to do?” he asked Rachel.

“You know how the scenery fell on Florence. I just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I don’t want any more accidents, especially during the performance.”

Bill went up on stage, flipping the lights on, and disappeared behind the partly painted flats. He was only gone a moment or two before he returned. “Looks fine to me,” he said, with a shrug. “It’s been bolted together and there are braces on the side panels that weren’t there before. It’s not going to fall.”

“Al must have worked on it since the accident,” Lucy said.

“Yeah,” Bill said. “Those struts weren’t there before, and the sections weren’t bolted together. It’s much safer now.”

“But it wasn’t safe before?” Lucy asked.

“It wasn’t finished,” Bill said. “It was a temporary setup.”

Lucy was thoughtful. “So you’re saying those flats fell because they weren’t constructed properly?”

“That’s the only way it could’ve happened,” Bill said. “I wouldn’t have left them like that but different people do things different ways.”

“It does seem terribly careless,” Miss Tilley said.

“I’m not sure careless is the word,” Lucy said, remembering Florence saying she heard a noise and felt a draft just before the scenery fell, and her sense that she hadn’t been alone.

Bill gave her a sharp look. “Anybody can make a mistake,” he said, but she knew what he really meant. He was warning her not to poke her nose into matters that didn’t concern her.

That evening she found herself accompanying Bill to the Finance Committee meeting. From what Barney had told her about the town employees it was going to be a tense affair and she wanted to give Bill a heads up. She offered him a little advice as they drove into town.

“I’ve heard rumors that the town employees are going to show up in force tonight, demanding their old hours and benefits,” she said. “You’re going to need to keep a cool head and remember it’s not about you. You didn’t vote to make the cuts.”

“I think I can handle whatever happens,” Bill said, in a
mind-your-own-business
tone of voice.

I sure hope so, Lucy thought, but didn’t say it out loud. She was pretty sure Bill didn’t have a clue about the firestorm he was walking into. In fact, the meeting room was packed with town employees and members of the Winchester Social Action Committee when they arrived. Seth Lesinski and his cohorts were seated together on one side of the aisle, while town employees including Harry Crawford, Phil Watkins, and Nelson Macmillan were scattered among the usual concerned citizens on the other.

Lucy took her usual seat near the front of the room and Bill joined the other board members at the long table facing the audience, seating himself behind his shiny new nameplate. At seven o’clock precisely chairman Gene Hawthorne called the meeting to order and, as always, opened the public comment portion of the meeting.

Seth Lesinski immediately jumped to his feet. “I’m here tonight with members—” he began, only to be silenced by Hawthorne.

“It’s usual to wait to be recognized by the chair before speaking,” he said.

“Sorry,” Seth said. “Am I recognized?”

“Go ahead,” said Hawthorne, looking annoyed.

“Now that I’ve been
officially
recognized,” Seth began with a smirk, “I’m here to say that I represent the Social Action Committee at Winchester College. Today the committee voted to demand complete and full restitution to the Tinker’s Cove town employees’ hours, wages, and benefits, and also to demand that town officials immediately demand that Downeast Mortgage cease and desist from foreclosing on delinquent mortgage holders.”

This brief speech was well received by most audience members, who clapped and cheered.

Gene Hawthorne once again called for order. “Thank you for your input,” he said, when the group finally quieted down. “I would like to point out, however, that tonight’s meeting will be limited to discussion and action on the items listed on the previously posted agenda.”

This announcement was met with a rumble of disapproval from the audience.

“Well, how do we get on the agenda?” Seth demanded.

“As I mentioned earlier, you need to be recognized by the chair before speaking,” said Hawthorne, with a sigh.

Lesinski rolled his eyes and raised his hand.

“Mr. Lesinski,” Hawthorne said. “Go ahead.”

“I guess this is a point of order,” Seth said in a challenging tone of voice. “How exactly does a concerned citizen place an item on the agenda?”

“You contact the committee secretary, Mrs. Mahoney, and she will take it from there. The agenda is posted one week prior to the meeting.”

“May I ask another question?” Seth asked. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“You may.”

“In effect, that means that at a minimum the committee cannot act on reinstating hours and benefits before next week, which takes us right up to Christmas, right?”

“Actually a bit longer, because we have to vote to include an item on the agenda,” Hawthorne said. “And we won’t meet again until after Christmas.”

“May I speak again?” Seth asked, bouncing a bit faster.

“You may.”

“Can you consider taking that vote tonight, at this meeting?”

Hawthorne checked with the other committee members, who indicated they were open to the suggestion.

Jerry Taubert, however, had a cautionary bit of information. “I don’t mind voting to include it in a future agenda, but it’s really pointless. I’m all for reinstating hours and wages, but the fact is that there simply isn’t enough cash on hand in the town account.”

“He’s right,” Bill said. “I’ve been going over the accounts and there’s not much wiggle room, that’s for sure. Tax receipts are down and so is state aid.”

“And furthermore,” Frankie added, “on the other matter, I don’t believe the town actually has the authority to tell Downeast Mortgage to stop foreclosures. That’s something the town counsel would have to look into.”

Hearing this, the crowd became extremely restive. “Well, that’s what we pay him for,” someone yelled. Harry Crawford and several other men were on their feet, demanding a vote.

“Do I have a motion?” Hawthorne asked, banging his gavel.

Pam raised her hand, moving that Lesinski’s demands be placed on the agenda for the next meeting, which was scheduled to take place early in January, after the usual Christmas break. Frankie seconded it and Hawthorne called for discussion, recognizing Jerry Taubert.

“This is a waste of time,” he said, getting a smattering of boos. “Our hands are tied. We don’t have the money to reinstate town employees. We’d have to raise taxes and we can’t do that without a town meeting vote.”